


The Making of Mycroft Holmes

by Herk



Series: The Life of Mycroft Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Complete, Gen, Guess who gets hugged, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Mycroft could really use them, Sad, Sherlock doesn't want hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5869996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herk/pseuds/Herk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little scenes from Mycroft's and Sherlock's childhood that explain at least partly why the British government is the man he is today.</p><p>Mummy Holmes isn't exactly a bad mother but sometimes parents can be thoughtlessly cruel when they don't see how much their child would need them at that moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Making of Mycroft Holmes

1975 - August

“Mycie?”

“Yes, Mummy?” The nine year old looked up from his book.

“I have to go over quickly to Mrs. Conners next door. Could you keep an eye on Sherlock for a moment?”

“Sure, Mummy.” 

He closed his book after a quick glance at the page number. He didn’t show it but at that moment Mycroft Holmes felt incredibly proud. Little Sherlock wasn’t a baby any more; he was a toddler, conquering each corner of their home and the world, so looking after him was a serious responsibility. Mummy usually ignored Sherlock when he was playing, only checking on him every couple of minutes to make sure he was playing peacefully and doing the housework in the meantime. Mycroft would take a closer watch as long as she was gone. He knew how quickly his brother’s mood changed and his focus went from puzzles towards climbing on the couch, or opening the tap so his pirate ships could swim in the tub.

Mycroft loved his little brother and didn’t even mind that the only books he could read him right now had to have huge pictures and not too much text. Sherlock didn’t talk much yet but he understood almost everything. Mycroft tried to convince Mummy and Daddy of that but they always just smiled and explained that Sherlock was too small to really understand when Mycroft explained the cause and effect of pushing buttons on the cooker and the danger of burning oneself. They simply forbade Sherlock to go anywhere near the kitchen appliances.  
His parents could be so stubborn.

“My-my.” Sherlock raced towards him one of his favourite books in hand, “Read.” He demanded, pushing the book in Mycroft’s hand.

The older boy took the book. “We sit down for reading, Sherlock.” He explained once again to the giddy little tot. Mycroft didn’t believe in using baby-talk. He sat down in front of the couch waiting for Sherlock to crawl onto his lap.

Usually Sherlock could listen to half of the book before getting bored. On good days he even made it to the end - not too bad considering the book was intended for five year olds. But today Sherlock was full of vim, unable to sit still for very long. He really tried to keep still so his brother wouldn’t stop reading, Mycroft could tell. But his hands and feet began to wander almost by themselves and he started fidgeting around. The older boy was just about to stop reading and tell Sherlock they would read the rest another time, when his little brother managed to hit the couch table so unfortunately that the glas on it got knocked over. 

Apple juice was spilling over the table and running down towards the carpet. Mycroft was horrified. Mummy loved that carpet, it had been a gift from grandmere. He quickly stood up and sat Sherlock on the couch. “Stay.” He ordered his little brother and ran to the kitchen to fetch some towels.

He wasn’t gone for more than some seconds. Mummy often turned her head looking away from Sherlock for far longer. He hadn’t been irresponsible, he really hadn’t.

He was halfway on his way back to the living room, towel in hand, when he heard a loud thump followed by the most heartbreaking wail.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft had never known panic before in the nine years of his life.

He didn’t remember how he got there, but the very next moment Mycroft was at Sherlock’s side, cradling the crying toddler in his arms. Apparently fidgety, little Sherlock had begun climbing around on the couch the second he turned his back. Sherlock was good at climbing. Nothing ever happened when he ran around and climbed all sorts of stuff. Mummy sometimes fussed but Daddy was proud that Sherlock had such excellent motor skills. Only today for some reason Sherlock had slipped and bumped his head on the ground. Mycroft could see the lump already forming on his forehead. There was no bleeding, thank god, but Sherlock was crying as if the world was about to end.

And then Mummy was there. She swept her youngest into her arms and began talking to him in a soothing voice, slowly calming the crying child.

“Mycroft get me a wet flannel, quickly. And use cold water.”

Mycroft ran to do as he was told as quickly as possible. When he came back Sherlock had started to calm down: Mummy took the wet flannel and put it against the lump, gently cooling it. “Shhh Sherly, it’s going to be alright, everything’s going to be fine.”

Startled by the cool against his skin Sherlock stopped crying altogether. He seemed to process that the cool took away from the pain and started pulling at the flannel, clearly wanting to study the magical piece of cloth.

“Mycroft.” Mummy didn’t sound angry, maybe a bit disappointed though. Mycroft wasn’t that good at reading people’s emotions and when he was stressed, his usual ability to deduce them by secondary hints sometimes failed him. “You really should have kept a closer eye on your baby brother.”

“I’m sorry, Mummy.” Mycroft bit his lips to stop himself from crying. He promised himself that he would never leave Sherlock out of his sight if he was ever allowed to watch over him again.

 

1978 - January

“What’s this letter, Mycie?” Sherlock pointed at the page of a book he had gotten for his birthday.

“It’s a ‘J’, Sherl. like in January, jump, or justice.” Mycroft turned back to his own book.

“Sherly, do you want someone to read that to you?” Mummy offered.

Her four year old boy scowled at her. “No!” He insisted and went back studying the page with furious intensity.

“Mycroft dear, why did you have to get him that book for his birthday? He’s a bit young for reading on his own. Yet he is too stubborn to give up.”

Her oldest just scoffed. When it came to his brother’s abilities he seemed unable to accept an adult’s perspective born from experience.

“Mycie promised that once I’ve read through this on my own, he’ll buy me ‘Treasure Island’ and read it WITH me.” Sherlock explained before burying his nose inside the book once again.

“Mycroft Reginald Siger Holmes.” Mummy was furious.

Mycroft looked up, obviously confused. Why was Mummy mad? He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was usually very good at not getting into trouble. But somehow he’d angered Mummy.

“Your brother just turned four. How could you plant that silly idea in his head that he has to read a book on his own? He’s far too young for that. He’s also far too young for ‘Treasure Island’.”

“Am NOT,” Sherlock protested. “It’s got pirates. My says it’s the most famous book ‘bout pirates that he knows.”

Mycroft tried to be reasonable. “If he’s too young to read on his own, we will not read ‘Treasure Island’, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” When he saw Mummy’s face he knew that he had made a mistake. He tried a different approach immediately. “I just tried to give him an extra incentive to learn his letters. Sherlock loves pirates after all. I thought if he could stick with it for more than half an afternoon he might finally manage to learn.”

“Mycroft - go to your room.”

The eleven year old’s eyes widened and the pure injustice. He wanted to protest but he knew when Mummy was in this mood there was nothing much he could do about it. He took his book and left the living room muttering under his breath. “I just wanted to help, it’s hardly my fault that Sherl’s slow.”

The terrible thing was that Sherlock heard him.

“Sherlock darling, come here.”

Even at four years Sherlock didn’t like to cuddle but when his mother called, he climbed into her lap resignedly. “Sherlock, I want you to know that it’s perfectly alright that you can’t read yet. Most children only learn in school when they’re five. Your brother just gets silly ideas.”

“Mycroft can read,” Sherlock pouted.

Mummy laughed. “Your brother is a lot older than you, of course he knows. He had seven years to learn things before you were even born.”

“When did Mycie learn how to read?”

“Oh I don’t know for sure - it’s not that important now.”

“Tell me!”

Seeing how her youngest was about to work himself into a tantrum, Mummy decided that answering truthfully was probably the best idea. “I think he read his first book when we visited grandmere on Easter, so he must have been… three and a half.”

Sherlock nodded. “So I AM slow.”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes - you are NOT slow. Little boys are good at different things and learn them in different orders. That’s perfectly alright.” She kissed him on the top of his unruly locks. “Now off you go and play.”

 

Mycroft lying on his bed looked up when the door to his room opened without knocking. It was Sherlock sneaking in, his book under his arm.

“Hey Sherl.” He sat up cross legged, making room on the bed for his brother.

“Did someone help you learning?” Sherlock climbed up on the bed.

“To read? Not really. Mummy let me look at the page when she read to me, sometimes pointing with her fingers at the words. But she never explained. It was like a riddle or code - and then someday it just clicked and the letters made sense.” Mycroft shrugged.

“But you help me. You have shown me letters and explained.”

Mycroft grinned. “I’m not very good had explaining I’m afraid. I haven’t learned how to be a teacher yet.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “You had no one to show you that either.” The younger boy bit his lip in contemplation, Mycroft waited for his brother to finish thinking. “You had no one to teach you and you learned it earlier, so I AM slow.”

“Oh, Sherl - I’m sorry I said that.”

“Don’t be. It only means I have to study harder. I don’t care what Mummy says. I’m going to read this and then we’re going to get that pirate book.”

Mycroft felt distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of ignoring Mummy but he didn’t protest when Sherlock dropped himself on his stomach and began studying his book again.

 

1979 - September

It was an honest to god accident. Mycroft had several classmates who would have delighted in doing something like this on purpose. But Mycroft wasn’t a fool. He had wanted to demonstrate the principles of optics to Sherlock nothing more. He’d cleaned up a spot in the garden to avoid any accidents before he even fetched the magnifying glass from inside. Just two or three dried leaves on a cleaned out spot - that was safe.

“Can you really make a fire with the glass?” Sherlock sounded doubtful.

Mycroft studied the sky. “When it’s this clear, it should work.”

“Should?”

The twelve year old grinned at his brother. “I haven’t put this to a test yet, but the principle is sound. All we need is to find the focal point of the lens and then the sun rays should be enough to ignite the leaves. It’s how a lot of forest fires get started.”

Sherlock looked doubtful. “Are there many magnifying glasses lying around in forests?”

Mycroft grinned. “Dewdrops or raindrops can have the same effect, Silly. Don’t you remember about rainbows?”

“‘Course I do,” Sherlock protested. He always remembered what his big brother taught him. “So this is going to be an experiment, Mycie?”

“Exactly.”

Oftentimes Sherlock was as unruly and hyperactive as a five year old could get but when it came to experiments then he could match his brother’s quiet patience. Everything went fine and they really managed to ignite the leaves. And then the unexpected bout of wind happened, blowing more leaves on their little flame resulting in a small fire. Mycroft pulled Sherlock away and tried to stomp it out but he was too slow. The fire had become too big already and he only managed to make sparks fly and more leaves catching fire as a result.

“MUMMY!” Mycroft panicked still trying to kill the flames.

Hearing the obvious fear in her oldest’ voice Violet Holmes was there in a heartbeat. She dragged both boys away from the fire before effectively drowning all flames with the garden hose. She whirled around the fright still having a clear hold of her, checking her two sons for any obvious injuries. Sherlock was watching her, excitement clear in his face. The flames hadn’t frightened him all that much obviously. Mycroft was so pale she thought he might faint any moment, the bad conscience clear in his face. But he was unhurt as well.

“What happened here?” She had spied the abandoned magnifying glass and had a pretty good idea what had occurred. The anger was apparent in her voice.

“We did an experiment.” Sherlock couldn’t quite hide the excitement at that statement.

“And whose idea was this experiment?” The threat of punishment was clear.

“I’m...I…” Mycroft stuttered.

The next thing he knew was Mummy grabbing him by the collar and placing some hard swats on his trouser bottoms. “You could have seriously hurt yourself and Sherlock. You could have burned down the house.”

It was over before he had really had a chance realizing what was happening. Mummy was trembling. “Now go to your room and stay there, Mycroft Holmes.” She turned around to give Sherlock a good scolding, ignoring her eldest as he shrank away.

 

It was already getting dark when Mummy came to his room. Mycroft had spent most of the time crying, thinking about what had almost happened.

“Mycroft?”

He sat upright on his bed immediately. Mummy did sound a lot calmer now. He bit his lip studying her in anticipation.

She sat down next to him on the edge of the bed. “You know you put the fear of god in me, with that little stunt.”

“I didn’t want to. I’m sorry, Mummy.” Tears were running down his cheeks again.

“I know. Mycie. Sherlock explained that it was an accident. But you were still incredibly careless. Your brother is too small to understand how dangerous what happened was. But you are old enough. And I need to know that I can trust you to act responsible.”

Mycroft simply nodded. There was nothing he could say really.

“After what you did today you need to be punished - so you’re grounded for one week. And by grounded I mean confined to your room, not just the house. You will only come outside for school, meals, and using the bathroom. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Good - now let’s go eat dinner.” 

 

1980 - November

Mummy was out at the shops when Sherlock came home from school; only Mycroft was at home because his school had the day off. Seeing his little brother the fourteen year old sighed.

“Oh Sherlock, what happened THIS time?”

“My classmates are idiots.” The second year dropped his school bag unceremoniously into a corner.

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile at his brother’s indignant tone. “So what’s new?”

When Sherlock took off his coat, Mycroft saw that his uniform was not only dirty but also torn at several places.

“Not much.” Sherlock commented with a scowl. 

“Did you tell the teachers?” Seeing the extent of damage done to his brother’s clothes Mycroft wasn’t amused anymore.

“Of course not. They would only say it’s my own fault for making up things, spreading lies. I didn’t LIE, Myc.”

“I never said you did.” He tried to placate his brother who was getting very excited.

“I only used what you taught me, keeping my eyes open and ‘deducing’. It’s hardly my fault that Paul doesn’t like being called out as a cheat and David gets beaten by his father.”

“Oh Sherlock - why can’t you keep your mouth shut about anything?”

“You taught me how to recognize signs.”

“I also tried to teach you not always blurting everything out.”

“Don’t tell Mummy, Myc.” 

Seeing the pleading in his brother’s eyes Mycroft reluctantly nodded. “I won’t. But what about those two idiots?”

“Pfff - they think just because I’m cleverer than them I’m a helpless wimp. I gave as good as I got”

Mycroft shuddered. He guessed it was a good thing that Sherlock was able to defend himself but the whole idea of physical confrontation was appalling. And no matter how good Sherlock might get in putting up a fight there was always the risk that he would get hurt.

“You think that’s something to be proud of?”

“Sure it’s something I’m good at, because I trained. I worked for it. So it’s something I can be proud of.”

“And why can’t you train on keeping your mouth shut?” Mycroft started tugging on Sherlock’s ruined blazer, helping his little brother to get out of it.

“Can you fix it?” Sherlock looked at him hoping for a miracle. Maybe even expecting it.

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “The tears are all at the seams so maybe.” He sounded doubtful. “I’m not a master-sewer though. So probably Mummy will notice.”

“Please try, Mycie.” His younger brother pleaded.

“I’ll do my best. Will you try to keep your mouth shut around idiots?”

“I’ll do my best.” Sherlock poked out his tongue and Mycroft had to chuckle. Sometimes his brother still managed to be cute rather than insolent. “Why do you keep going on about that? I thought you don’t like repeating yourself.”

“I don’t. And I would stop if you actually learned that one lesson. Which for some reason seems to elude you so far.” He took Sherlock's trousers and carried them and the blazer over to the washing machine.

“We both know I’m slow on the uptake.”

Mycroft groaned. “You know just because I said that ONCE that doesn’t make it alright for you to use it as an excuse for the rest of your life as soon as you don’t want to learn something.”

“They are idiots.” Sherlock shrugged. “Why should I change who I am for them?”

Mycroft put a few other items in the machine and started the program. “Because the world is FULL of idiots, morons, fools, dullards, and dunces of every flavour in the rainbow. They are more than us, Sherlock. It’s easier not trying to fight it out with each and every one of them - and better for your health.”

“Booooring.” Sherlock hoped on the washing machine and let his legs dangle.

“Survival isn’t boring, Sherlock. Now see to it that you get cleaned up and put some clothes on, you little nudist.”

When Sherlock jumped down the machine to do as he was told for once, Mycroft shouted after him. “We’re out of dark blue thread - I’m running down to the shops quickly. If Mummy’s back before me, tell her you wanted biscuits and I went to buy some.”

“Will you buy biscuits?” came the excited question from upstairs.

“Of course I will, wouldn’t be much of an alibi otherwise!”

 

What Sherlock never found out was that Mycroft not only made the run to the shops but actually took the roundaway route that took him behind the school grounds. He managed to take a good look at Paul and David and checked Sherlock’s deductions. They were astoundingly sound - well, Mycroft would bet it was the mother who regularly beat David. For a short moment Mycroft considered confronting the boys, threatening them to leave his brother alone. But David needed help, then he wouldn’t be a problem for Sherlock anymore. And Paul… well Mycroft had an idea or two what to do to him. He went and bought thread, biscuits, and stamps. An anonymous letter to social service about little David seemed the prudent thing to do after all.

Mummy didn’t even raise an eyebrow when she found that Mycroft had put on a wash while she was gone. Her eldest was very responsible and independent after all. When she caught him sewing a tear in Sherlock’s school blazer late in the evening, she looked at her son in surprise.

“What happened?”

“We tussled, before he got out of his uniform,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’m just trying to repair any damage I caused.”

Violet Holmes knew fully well that any tussle would have been initiated by her youngest and Mycroft was just covering for Sherlock. She decided to let them get away with it this time. “You should really know better, Myc.”

“Yes, Mummy.”

 

It was the little things.

When Sherlock asked for Mycroft’s share of the dessert after they had argued no one protested when the older brother gave up on the treat as a peace offering.

When Sherlock offered up his piece of cake because it was Mycroft’s favourite and he didn’t care too much for almond himself, the older brother’s hand would be stopped by Mummy’s voice. “Mycroft, that’s your brother’s share. If he doesn’t want it now, please leave it for him for later.”

Aunts, uncles, strangers on the street, everyone seemed to comment on how cute little Sherlock was with his adorable locks and huge eyes. 

If people commented on Mycroft’s looks at all, it was usually along the lines of “He’s a bit pudgy isn’t he?” or if he was very lucky “Ah, the Holmes nose. He gets that from his grandfather.”

Mummy and Father always commented on how quick Sherlock was, how strong, how good his motor skills were, how energetic.

No one ever mentioned how Mycroft was cleverer than anyone else they knew, including the teachers and Mummy.

Mycroft Holmes learned early on that pure intelligence wasn’t much appreciated and letting people know how clever you really were mostly put them off. But hiding his true potential behind a polite mask gave him an advantage. Most people appreciated good manners, especially in children, and a lot of the nastier men and women mistook them as a sign of weakness. A fact Mycroft learned to exploit over the years.

Unlike his brother he didn’t have the incredible charm that lulled people in naturally, so he couldn’t afford to piss off a good percentage of the population by letting them know what exactly he thought of them, secure in the knowledge that everyone would forgive him if he smiled at them but once.

Sherlock saw that Mycroft had inherited more from Mummy’s side than himself. He was the intelligent one, not the dreamer. Sherlock had his romantic heart from his father as well as his better physical abilities. He was convinced that Mummy saw herself in Mycroft and therefore loved him more, the only thing he could never fully forgive his brother.

Mycroft saw that Sherlock was more like their father too: dreams of becoming a pirate, the inability to shut up when faced with injustices, the easy charm. He himself had learned practicality and responsibility from their mother. He was convinced that Mummy saw herself in him and therefore expected more of her eldest. He knew that Mummy loved them both, but Sherlock just the tiniest bit more.

As usual with these things, Mycroft was the one who was right.


End file.
